


The mistletoe's responsible

by queenofstonyhearts



Series: FrUK Holiday Week 2017 [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Day 2: Mistletoe rose, Drunk England, Drunken Kissing, FrUK, FrUk Holiday Week 2017, Kissing, M/M, Prompt: Mistletoe, a bit of cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 05:43:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13160478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofstonyhearts/pseuds/queenofstonyhearts
Summary: Second FrUK Holiday Week 2017 entry, prompt "Mistletoe/Rose"England wakes up with a pounding head and an angry Frenchman with a camera on his bedside. Apparently, the last drunken escapade had him confess to something he'd never wanted France to know. It just had to be the damn mistletoe's fault.





	The mistletoe's responsible

**Author's Note:**

> Second entry for FrUK Holiday week 2017. Day 2, prompt "Mistletoe" used.  
> Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. It's owned by Himaruya Hidekaz.

The Mistletoe. Curse that blasted thing! It was considered a harmless plant, not taking the myth about the Norse God Loki using a mistletoe to kill Balder into account. Couples were promised to have lasting and happy relationships if they kissed on Christmas underneath a branch (also a result of the myth). Oh boy did the personification of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland _loathe_ the plant. Or, he had until this year.

* * *

 

He already harboured a distaste for Christmas either way; nobody to spend it with, nothing to do and annoying Christmas Carols playing weeks in advance wherever he went. (And it were always the same ones, too.) So most of the time, England just tried to find a pub open on Christmas Eve and got smashed, if not in bars, he’d crack open one of the billion bottles of ancient alcohol he’d been gifted in his millennia as a nation and drink at home.

This year was no exception. The clock had been ten minutes past midnight when the beginning of what _did_ make this year exceptional  occurred.

Prussia, completely shitfaced, stumbled into the pub.

England knew better than to inquire as to what he was doing in London on Christmas night. The alcohol meant the Christmas/end-of-the-year/annual Germanic family reunion had gone awfully. A reunion nobody ever invited England to, despite the fact that he was as closely related to them as the Scandinavians were. Why Prussia willingly left the mainland, though, would stay a mystery.

As would the reason for Drunk England to take pity on Drunk Prussia and offer him a round of beer. When the alcohol worked their tongues loose and they started to drown in each other’s sympathy, things became blurry.

* * *

 

England woke up on Christmas morning with a pounding headache and a curtain of gold in his face. Despite being tired, hungover and angry, he could still tell who the owner of the hair was. France was feeling his forehead and gave him a disapproving look.

“You’re awake?” Well, there had been warmer greetings in the past, even from his mortal enemy-friend-crush with impossibly blue eyes and blond hair. Then again, they usually didn’t entail bringing his drunk ass home and all of that on Christmas.

England weakly grumbled an incoherent response to the question. Couldn’t he just _leave_? Of course not. This was France. If the pure kindness of his heart was not sufficient to get him to stay and watch over his ancient foe, his desire for blackmail and gloating material would be.

God, he hoped it was only the first. He actually couldn’t remember what had happened between “harmlessly” chugging alcoholic beverages down his throat with Prussia and his unpleasant awakening. A full-blown blackout. That hadn’t happened in decades. Lord knew what he might have done under the influence.

“So you are.” Wow, that voice was frosty. France was furious and didn’t even try to hide it. England forced his eyes open again. After being shocked by the light, he’d squeezed them shut. The contours of his archenemy became more defined with every second.

Along with France’s curves, he noticed for the first time that the Frenchman was holding a camera. Where had it come from? A sense of foreboding left England’s mouth drying up. Only now did he realize he had a desperate thirst.

“Well? Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Well, not if his mouth felt like the Sahara desert. That idiot. He wasn’t sure whom of them he was referring to; France or his drunk self. The last sentence had confirmed he’d screwed up majorly.

“Water”, England croaked out.

“Get it yourself.” The Brit tried. Except he fell straight out of bed and to France’s feet. Embarrassing.  The sigh he received in return was admittedly deserved, but France pulled him up again. England felt disoriented and sick. At least he was standing now.

France dragged him to the bathroom first. Not a second too late, because he was hunched over the toilet and vomiting a few moments afterwards. The man went on to get him the water (old hypocrite. He’d told him he wouldn’t be the one to bring it to England minutes ago) he desperately needed to wash the taste of his lunch from the previous day away and England soothed his throat with the cool liquid.

By then the Englishman felt well enough to search for some clean clothing and get properly dressed. He decided against showering until France was gone. Not when he could be walked in on at any point in time.

Now decent, England made his way downstairs. France was sitting on his favourite chair in his kitchen, a cup of instant coffee in his hands. The blonde sipped from it and grimaced. Obviously it wasn’t the high-quality brew he was used to. England rarely drank coffee and the instant sufficed. At least France hadn’t gone near his beloved tea or kettle.

Either way, the man had the camera in his lap. Whatever photos were on it, England needed to figure out a way to destroy all evidence they had been taken. For now, he’d try and gather information on last night’s happenings.

England sat down on the opposite chair, waiting for France to address his presence. He didn’t have to wait long.

“ _Angleterre_ , do you remember anything of last night?”

“Only getting drunk and offering Prussia a round on me. Why are you here, frog?”, England retaliated with a question of his own, which had been burning on the tip of his tongue since he’d woken up.

“Well, first _Allemagne_ left me a voice mail, asking if I’d seen his brother. I received a cryptic text message by _Prusse_ an hour after, telling me he was in London and drunk with you. I had to help poor little _Allemagne_ retrieve you two.”

England nearly snorted at the thought of anyone calling Germany “little”. Technically he was younger than any of them, but little was not a word anyone would use to describe the nation. A gentleman does not snort, however, so England refrained from making the ridiculous sound.

“Ah, did Prussia make it home safe?”

France nodded. “Not without a stern wording from his brother, but he was physically fine. Even if he was so drunk he could hardly stand and tried to punch _Allemagne_ , calling him ‘ _Österreich_ ’ .” Apparently things had gone even worse than England originally assumed. He took it as an incentive to bring up what actually occurred with him.

“So Prussia is fine. What about me?”

“I’d say you’re rather fine. You _are_ talking to me right now.” France rarely used sarcasm (unless talking to England or America). But even then he tried to be more direct. The mentality of keeping their real thoughts to themselves was something nations with a history of monarchies were well-acquainted with, after centuries of life in court. Post-revolution, France had begun to despise it.

“Don’t toy with me. What happened last night?”, he asked again.

“I think I should show you. You wouldn’t believe me.” Oh God. England had been alive for dozens of centuries. He could imagine a lot, even compared to other nations. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know what had ensued on his drunken escapade. But better to hear it now than find out through whispers and pictures on the internet.

“By the way, a human you were having a drinking contest with took the pictures. I will have to give him the camera back.” So that’s where the photos came from.

France pressed the power button on the camera, searching for the beginning of pictures. England peered at the small display. A few pictures the Frenchman showed him weren’t that bad. He was plastered, crying on Prussia’s shoulder. He’d done worse before.

The next set consisted of him dancing on the countertop. Photo Prussia was obviously egging him on.

The snapshots were interrupted with one of an angry German. Germany was pulling his older brother off the barstool, while also trying to pry a beer bottle from Prussia’s grasp.

Another followed of a somewhat dishevelled France. The nation seemed tired. Apparently last night’s England had noticed his entry, because the next showed him back on the ground, conversing with France. The rest were France dragging Drunk England out of the pub. (Drunk England was also shamelessly checking out France’s backside. Sober England hoped it didn’t mean much for what transpired last night. No way had “the nation of love” not perceived the conspicuous looks.) A few more photos were just the bar and the apparent photograph taking a shitty selfie.

“That’s not exactly unbelievable, Frog.” The flush on France’s face was far too obvious.

“Well, not that.”

“France. Spit. It. Out”, England hissed. The Frenchman sighed.

“Alright”, France gave him a look, “but you’re sure you don’t remember anything?”

“I thought we were already past this. I can’t even recall you and Germany coming in.”

“Well, I was going to take you home. I know where your spare key is, after all.” England had told him so on one of the countless times he had to be taken home by someone else after he’d gotten too tanked-up. (Likely a Fourth of July.)

“But you refused to cooperate. You just ran off and I had to go after you. When I found you, it took me a while to drag you back.” France’s voice lowered each sentence. He took a deep breath and placed the coffee cup he had finished long ago on the table.

“We were stopping under a streetlamp and then you pointed out that someone hung a mistletoe on it.” Shit. What had he done? France continued.

“After that you-you kissed me.”

“No”, England said tersely, “no way. You’re making things up. I can’t have been that drunk. I don’t know what you’d gain from such a joke.” Deep down, he knew France probably hadn’t invented it. This wasn’t something the other man would jest about.

“ _Angleterre_. We have known each other for centuries. I cannot believe you think I would claim something like this to prank you. Sex, maybe; but not a kiss or a love confession!” France looked as shocked as England felt. It seemed he hadn’t intended to say the last part (yet). Oh no. **Oh no.**

This was a disaster. England had done everything in his power to keep his feelings for France concealed, for ages now. And he’d gone and ruined the careful mask of hate in a single drunken night. What was he going to do now? France _knew_.

 **Fuck**.

He knew the nation better than to think he would just let this information go.

 ** _Fuck_**.

Or that he wouldn’t use it the next time they went to war. European Union and Entente Cordiale existed for now, but treaties were fickle as all of them were fully aware of. The allies and siblings of yesteryear could be the archenemies of tomorrow and the enemy of your enemy your friend or lover soon.

**_ Fuckfuckfu- _ **

England bolted. It was his house all right, but he couldn’t stay in the room any longer. Not when he had France’s face in close proximity. Not when he acknowledged he’d kissed that face, like he’d wanted to for so long. Like he wanted to still.

Correction, England tried to bolt. France had shot up from the chair and grabbed him by the sleeve.

“No, England. You don’t get to leave. Not until we’ve talked about this.” England partly registered France had called him by his real name, not the one he’d given him ( _Angleterre_ ). It meant serious business. Mechanically, he went back to the table and the Frenchman let go of him. Wait. He could do this. He was drunk. He could chalk it up to the alcohol.

“I don’t see what we have to talk about. I was drunk, I didn’t mean it. I can’t even remember it. You should just forget it.” Forget it, yes please. He was mentally beseeching France to do just that.

“Then, pray tell, why in all the times I took your drunk ass home, did you never do anything like this?” No such luck, it seemed. England was speechless. There was nothing he could tell him, anyway. Except the truth, maybe.

“Did you mean it at least?” France’s glare softened a bit. Was England trying to trick himself or was there a hint of hope in his blue eyes?

“D-don’t be ridiculous, Frog, of course not-”, the Brit stammered.

“Just tell me the truth.” Again, England remained silent. He couldn’t admit it.

“Tell me already!” France brought his fist down on the table. England startled. It wasn’t like the Frenchman at all.

France calmed himself a bit, and then carried on. “Because it’s really fucked up to tell me something like this while drunk, when everyone knows _in vino veritas_ , drunk people always tell the truth”, he choked up a bit, “and to serve me half-baked lies now when I’m hoping- when I-”, he shut up at that. _Hoping_. That simple word had tilted England’s world on its axis. Before England knew it, he pressed his lips against France’s for the second time in two days.

France’s lips were impossibly soft. Humans (or nations) couldn’t have lips this soft, right? It had to be a dream. But it was warm and real and far better than any daydream England had ever had.

France’s eyes flew open. Now that England was sober, he had expected it even less than last night. It was happening, though. His old enemy was kissing him. France closed his eyes and returned the kiss, deepening it.

England’s hands tangled in France’s beautiful hair. They were both enjoying the kiss, breaking apart only when they needed air. Both nations stayed close to each other, enjoying the happy glow.

“I meant it,” England told France sincerely. “I love you. For centuries now. I was trying to keep it a secret, but-”, France cut him off with a kiss of his own. He could get used to this.

“I love you too, _Angleterre._ _Je t’aime_.”

* * *

 

Oddly enough, England didn’t hate mistletoes quite as much after that day. Perhaps it was the fact he had someone to kiss under them nowadays. Or it was simply the fact that if he hadn’t seen it that night, he’d never have taken that leap. He didn’t want to credit the “Dutch Courage” or Prussia’s drunken text, so the mistletoe would have to be responsible for his relationship with France.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it was late, but this one had me stumped a bit. But I think I managed. Happy holidays!


End file.
